


Obstinancy is Inherited

by kishiriaz



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Fluff, Gift Fic, Harmless, M/M, WAFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishiriaz/pseuds/kishiriaz





	Obstinancy is Inherited

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pholcidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholcidae/gifts).

A cold, wet wind was blowing across the rocky terrain in front of the 30 meter high volcanic core. The conical rock was riddled with holes that would eventually become windows, and Astartes of the Imperial Warsmith united legion swarmed around and on it, dressed in yellow coveralls with the chevrons and fist crest on the back.

Despite the raw wind and grey skies overhead, Rogal Dorn was seated at a table under a plastek canopy, his seven year old daughter Hestia on his lap. She was clad in the same overalls as her father and the legion, wearing a small hard hat. He was letting her manipulate the hololith of the blueprints in the air, where they were projected from a laptop cogitator in front of them.

“Where’s my room?” she asked again.

“Right there.” He reached out a finger and spun the diagram around. The first floor of the Rock House was the family’s quarters, reached by a staircase spiraling from the ground floor foyer. “Your room is beside ours, so we can assemble right away if we have to.”

As he was making this assurance, Dorn’s husband Perturabo came striding up the slope, dark brows furrowed. Unlike his spouse and child, he was dressed in a knee-length woolen tunic, trousers, boots and a cape over it all. 

“Hi Daddy!” Hestia announced.

His expression softened as he bent over to kiss the little girl’s cheek.

“You look displeased,” Dorn observed. Since this was no longer Perturabo’s default, it was noteworthy.

“Ach.” He placed a dataslate in front of Dorn. “It’s Polux and Dantioch. They are asking to be released from active status in the legion in order to open up—” his upper lip curled, “a _bar_ in the village.”

Dorn scrolled through it. “The only tavern in town is human-sized, which is inconvenient to the Astartes and Custodians who want to get out for a little nightlife.” He continued to scroll. “Their business plan looks sound, and they’ve saved the Thrones for it. Given Dantioch’s health, it will give him something productive to do since he is semi-retired from the legion.”

“Will you sign it?”

Dorn reached into a breast pocket for a stylus. “Since I know Polux will answer a call back to duty if I give it, I have no objections.” He signed in the space indicated. “And you?”

“I suppose I must,” Perturabo groused.

“Hestia, can you go supervise the plumbing team for a little bit?” Dorn asked. “Make sure they’re using the right plasteel pipes for the bathtubs.”

“Okay.” She hopped off his lap and headed in the direction of a truck.

“Now,” said Dorn, pouring a cup of recaf from an insulated urn for Perturabo, “tell me why this is troubling you.”

Polux was finishing the installment of the keypad on the ceramite-reinforced door that led up to their quarters. Down the hall, Dantioch was leaning on his cane, watching Imperial Warsmith aspirants install tables that would be waist-high to an average Astartes. Satisfied, he turned to observe the aspirants who were polishing the silver sheen on the U-shaped bar.

The Iron Works was a bar that Polux and Dantioch had envisioned over many glasses of wine. When many of the Primarchs had announced that they were going to Imperia to accompany the Emperor into retirement, they had realized that their alcohol-inspired fantasy could become reality. Other cousin-Astartes were opening businesses after all, and the village already boasted a school for the children, a Continuing Education center for the adults with plans for a college, and a large commissary and commercial goods exchange. 

The building had gone up in two days, given the construction abilities of the Warsmith legion. Half of the second floor was apportioned to be Polux’s and Dantioch’s residence while the other half was a loft overlooking the bar floor. The décor was industrial, with a poured-cement floor, tables held to it with large bolts, and exposed metal beams. Dome-shaped manufactorum lights hung on chains from the ceiling high above. Behind the bar was a kitchen and the business office.

Polux rolled up his tools and stuck them in the pocket of his construction apron. He turned and went out onto the floor, stopping for a moment to revel in the sight of the Astartes he loved. Dantioch was frail. He was still muscled, but under crepey, sagging skin. His face was lined, his eyes sunken though bright again. He’d once had a full head of black hair, but Polux had never seen it. He’d only ever known the thin, grey hair that Dantioch had now.

Polux knew what an odd couple they made. He was as large and broad as a Custodian himself, with blue eyes and gold hair that would look right on a son of Guilliman. He stood beside Dantioch for a moment, then embraced him gently from behind.

“The lock is on the door,” he said. “You’ll be able to slip upstairs with no one but me to bother you.”

“The alcohol should be arriving from Prospero and Fenris within the fortnight. The groxmeat, tubers, and other foods are scheduled for tomorrow, and we should be able to switch over to all local products in the summer. The Mournival are already working on our bread order.”

“So we should be able to open as soon as the alcohol arrives.”

“And we won’t be dependent on shipments once our brewery produces its first product.”

“Two weeks till opening. I was thinking that part of the festivities could be our Honour Brother ceremony.”

“I think, that’s long overdue,” Dantioch said. Polux froze for a moment. He had expected resistance.

“It’s settled then,” Polux said. “We’ll open with drinks half price all day, a banquet, a ceremony and cake?”

“I think it would be well-attended.”

“Who should preside over the ceremony?” Polux asked. 

Dantioch’s wrinkled brow furrowed. “I would that it were both our Primarchs, but I don’t think Perturabo will agree.”

“That’s awful, but I know Dorn will.”

“Dorn, Horus, Sanguinius, any or all of the primarchs living here on Imperia,” Dantioch groused. “I just fear that Perturabo is going to be as stubborn as ever.”

Someone rang the buzzer at the back door. The two Astartes frowned at each other.

“Stay here,” Polux warned, but Dantioch followed him anyway. Polux opened the door to reveal a floating servo-skull. It extended a thin metallic arm which held the same data-slate they had sent to their primarchs. Polux took the slate, closed the door, and walked into the hall to open the contents with Dantioch.

A moment later, they hugged. “We’re free to open the bar,” Polux said. 

“I was afraid Dorn might have refused to release you. You’re big, and strong, and brilliant. He could have wanted to keep you on active duty.”

“You always flatter me, Barabas.”

“No, really. In contrast, why would Perturabo want to retain me?” He paused for a moment. “I can think of one reason. Spite.”

“Dorn seems to have mellowed him.”

“I don’t know. We didn’t ask either of them to attend our ceremony. We haven’t even told them it’s happening. “

“We should,” Polux told him firmly. “We’ll invite them as a family, rather than individuals. It’s the proper etiquette anyway from what I’ve read.”

A few days later, a servo-skull arrived at the front door of the cottage the Dorns were occupying while they were building their house. Dorn rose from the family table to open the door and take the proffered item from the skull. Unlike the documents that they had sent to Polux and Dantioch on a data-slate, this was an expensive bond paper envelope. Dorn brought it to the table where Hestia was eating porridge with milk and Perturabo was drinking recaf out of a huge ceramite mug.

“Who’s it from, Rogal?”

“Dantioch and Polux.”

“What do they want now?”

Dorn sat down in his chair and showed him the wax seal. It was the logo of The Iron Works. He broke the seal and opened the envelope.

“It’s an invitation to the grand opening of the bar, and to their Honour Brother ceremony.”

“Mmph.”

“Turbo, you have to talk to him eventually.”

“I thought you understood the cause of my ire.”

“I do. My philosophy has always been to urge my sons to fight to the death. However, Dantioch brought back some vital knowledge that would have been lost had he done so, and he certainly did not return unscathed.”

Perturabo grunted.

“Besides, Turbo, I want to be able to go there for a drink and a sandwich. Have you seen their menu?”

“Reduce it to food, Rogal, will you?”

There’s more to it. The Iron Works is likely to become a gathering spot for the community, and we should not exclude ourselves from that.”

Perturabo grunted again.

“Hestia…”

Hestia emitted the exact same grunt, rolled her eyes, and picked up her cereal bowl. “Go supervise something, I know, I know.” She walked down the hall to her room.

“She’s onto us,” said Perturabo.

“Given our personalities, we are going to have to find her a _lot_ of things to supervise. I’m very happy in our marriage, Turbo, but let’s be honest, our rivalry has a long tail, dragging through it.”

“So what do you propose.”

“We are in a completely new phase of our lives, Perturabo. Nothing is the same as when we were on crusade. We don’t have the same relationship to the men of our legions because we are now one legion. Dantioch is now my son as well as yours.”

“So you officiate their honour-brotherhood.”

“Both of them should have both of their primarchs.”

Perturabo ate a piece of toast.

“Do I need to have Vulkan explain to you why this is important?”

“No,” Perturabo said. “The only person to explain it to me is you.” He looked up. “Illuminate me, Rogal.”

Two weeks later, the party was in full swing at The Iron Works. The girders and pipes were strung with fairy lights, there were silver and black balloons everywhere, and both Astartes and Custodes were dancing to the beats of the Third Legion band in the loft. 

“I don’t think we should hold off any longer with the honour brotherhood,” Polux murmured to Dantioch. Polux was drinking a tankard of lambic made with local fruit. Dantioch was seated in a large chair set behind the bar, sipping a glass of wine.

“I’m disappointed. I thought perhaps your gene-sire would attend.”

“At least we have enough witnesses to our vows.” All the primarchs resident on Imperia were present except for Dorn and Perturabo.

Dantioch turned his head slowly, looking around the bar. His eyes were moist, but they often watered as a result of his condition. “Well then, let’s begin.”

Polux took his hand and helped him rise from his chair. The two came out from behind the bar, and Polux gestured in battle-sign to the lead guitarist in the loft. He and Dantioch walked over to a long table on which Tarik Torgaddon and Horus Aximand were dancing shirtless and waited for the song to end before shooing them to the floor. Polux took their place, and assisted Dantioch to stand beside him.

They stood wearing grey Iron Works t-shirts with black kilts. Polux rapped on his ceramite tankard with the handle of his utility knife. The crowd began to shush itself, and when it was adequately quiet, Polux began, “Thank you for coming to the opening of The Iron Works.”

“We are delighted to see that you all appear to be having a marvelous time,” Dantioch added. “Alexis and I hope that this will be a place where you can come for your marvelous times and your happy occasions for many decades, if not centuries, to come.”

There was applause and exclamations of “Thank you!” from their guests.

“Barabas and I thought it would be only appropriate to have the first happy occasion here, today.” Polux smiled at his friend. “So we would like to pause the festivities here to vow honour-brotherhood to each other. My lords primarch, would you witness our oath of moment?”

Horus and Sanguinius, Fulgrim and Ferrus Manus, came to the table along with Corvus Corax to stand in a circle around the two Space Marines. 

“My brothers and I stand ready to witness,” Horus announced.

Dantioch took Polux’s hand in his own. “I know that this is usually done kneeling, but alas, that is rather—”

“Wait! Wait! Don’t speak those vows just yet,” a deep voice called from the service hallway. All heads turned to see Rogal Dorn and Perturabo carrying a large covered tray between them. They set it down on another table and removed the metal cover. Beneath it was a huge sheet cake, iced in silver-grey with The Iron Works’ logo depicted in fondant. 

“You came!” Polux and Dantioch exclaimed in unison.

“We regret being late,” Dorn said. He and Perturabo joined the circle of their brothers.

In front of their primarchs, their brothers, and their cousins, Polux and Dantioch exchanged oaths of moment to stand together for life. “In sickness and in health,” Polux added. “I hear mortals say that sometimes.”

“I hope we have more health,” Dantioch agreed. They smiled and embraced as the guests applauded.

The primarchs lifted them down to the floor, where they were guided over to the cake. Ferrus Manus handed them a sword, and they both took the hilt to cut the first slices. 

Dantioch was beaming, but his energy was waning. He sat with Polux, smiling and eating cake. He asked for a second piece, but stopped halfway through. He could been seen to whisper to Polux who nodded understandingly and helped him stand.

Perturabo appeared in front of them. “Let me help Barabas upstairs.”

“Sire?” Dantioch’s voice was weak.

“There’s no need for Polux to leave the party. I can see you safely to your quarters.”

Dantioch looked nonplussed, but allowed Perturabo to support him down the hall. He tapped out the code on the keypad, and the door opened to reveal an elevator.”

“I really do need it,” he told Perturabo apologetically.

The living quarters were open, with a brick wall separating them from the loft in the bar. It was well-insulated, although they could still hear the bass from the music that had now resumed. There was an enclosed section at the far end, containing their bedroom and bath suite.

Dantioch seated himself in a well-upholstered armchair. “I just need a little time to recharge,” he said. “Sire. To what do I owe this honour? Forgive me, but Alexis and I were quite sure you weren’t going to come.”

Perturabo sat on the couch opposite Dantioch’s chair. “I had to be convinced, but as you can see, Rogal succeeded.”

“I am glad. Thank you.”

“He reminded me that he, too, is a stubborn man. A man who does not tolerate failure or weakness. However, we are now in a situation where, inarguably, we need to learn to be more flexible and tolerant. And, dare I say it, to have some compassion.”

Dantioch said nothing.

“It’s the fact that we have a daughter now that changes everything. Ultimately, your failing was impossible to avoid, and we now know about this Hrud. Your death and our ignorance would not be advantageous. Rogal asked me how I would tolerate Hestia’s failures as she matures, and she will have them. Would I react like my foster-father, or would I allow her to learn from her mistakes? 

“Your failure was not that of a child, and you made what you considered to be the right decisions. I…must accept them. Although,” Perturabo’s cheek twitched in the suggestion of a smile, “I angrily told him that Hestia is our child. Rogal shot back that now, so are you.”

Dantioch exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

“You and Alexis are our sons. Plus, I know that Rogal was looking forward to having lunch here, and my ongoing refusal to come to your establishment was something he was not going to suffer lightly. ‘I am going to have that smoked meat sandwich whether you like it or not,’ he told me.”

At this, Dantioch laughed. “I’ll have one brought to him immediately, free of charge.”

Perturabo stood. “I won’t keep you any longer. I hope that you will return to the celebration shortly.”

“As do I, Sire.”

“Don’t expect a hug from me.”

“Not in a million years, Sire.”

“May you and Polux have a million years together, though,” Perturabo said, and reached out his hand. They gripped forearms.

About an hour later, Dantioch did feel well enough to come back downstairs. Demonstrating Astartes energy levels, the revelers hadn’t slowed down. He eked his way back to Polux, who was perched on a bar stool, talking to a few brothers whose features marked them as Imperial Fists.

Dantioch stopped to whisper to one of the servers before accepting the stool vacated by one of the guests. “Did I miss anything?”

“I think Horus and Sanguinius are going to be regulars. Look at them.” Polux pointed, smiling. The two primarchs were laughing, their faces close together, tankards in their hands. “Dorn and Perturabo seem to be enjoying themselves too, though not as overtly.” 

The Imperial Warsmith primarchs were sedate. Dorn was drinking beer and Perturabo was drinking wine with an open bottle in front of him.

The server brought Dorn a sandwich platter. Dorn’s and Perturabo’s eyes went wide as they saw it, and they could read their lips as they commented that they were the size of their respective faces.

“I called the kitchen to have that sent over,” Dantioch explained.

“I think this has been a great success,” Polux told him. “We have presents to open.”

“I received the best one already.”

“Oh?” Polux turned to look at him. “Is it me?”  
  
“Yes, but the second best present then? I’ll tell you about it later.” Dantioch squeezed his hand. “When we’re home.”


End file.
